Aborior ad Memoria
by OrrAcle
Summary: Not every angel is important, but every one has a purpose. So what happens when your only mode of survival cops a knife through the head, and you're left alone to face the Apocalypse?
1. Prologue

**_B_**eing a wingman sucks.  
It sucks because the hours are long, the work is hard, the boss is a tyrant and pretty much the only reward you ever get is not being killed. In my world, 'not-being-killed-an-hour' is a damn fine wage.  
I've spent most of my existence holding down various humans while the fast-tracked angel strutting about in front of us delivers his finely tuned soliloquy. And, (assuming someone doesn't show up and kill me first) once the witty repartee has been completed, I hang onto the now wildly struggling human while whatever atrocity my boss has in mind is carried out. I've seen (well, hung on to) all types of different people. Famous people, holy people, evil people; Biblical figures, saints, demons. I remember most of them.  
Lately, though, it's been two specific humans. Vessels, to be precise. An important portfolio assigned to my boss, Zachariah. It's taking a little longer than expected- taking some unexpected turns, too.

Hi. My name is James, and I've been with Zachariah almost every time he's met the Winchesters. Don't remember me?  
I was the one in the dark suit.

It's not as though I don't have a story to tell. I do-- you just wouldn't find it very interesting.  
That is, until about a month ago.

* * *

_So, what do you think? A Gerber reading, self-effacing, background angel with a story to tell. Just trialling so far, tell me if you think it's worth continuing._


	2. Closed Door

_I hate it when the humans win._

_Not that I have anything really against them, as such. It's more of a self-preservation thing._

_****  
_The bar was winding down for the night. Drowsy patrons were falling asleep in their drinks, and the barkeeper was cleaning off the taps with an old rag. It was business as usual that night- a couple of scuffles, but most of the late-night drinkers were gray-haired and slow, with the exception of the two men occupying a table in the far corner. They were young, both dark-haired, and attired in nearly identical black suits. One was a heavy drinker, while the other preferred to sip his drink excruciatingly slowly. They made an odd pair, thought the barkeeper, giving them a second glance. Suspicion started to cloud his thoughts as he glared at them. The slow-drinker's shoulder blade twitched slightly under his suit. And suddenly, the barkeeper wondered why he had ever been looking at them in the first place. He had better things to think about, after all. Why, for example, there were three less shot glasses in the cabinet, and the rising tabs of the boozers in front of him, and if he didn't get that cash soon...

And that would have been that, if one of the dark suited men hadn't suddenly gasped in pain and slid from his chair, landing on the hardwood floor with a hollow thump. That wouldn't have been so unusual in a bar, but a millisecond later, his companion let out a hoarse scream and slumped lifelessly over the table.

*****

White-hot pain seared through James' skull like fire. The sharp, incredible agony stemmed from somewhere outside of him, but he couldn't make sense of it through the blinding sensation. The angel struggled to extract his essence from the pain, to siphon it off, anything to make it lessen. He was vaguely aware of Bartleby collapsed over the table, tossed in the same inexplicable maelstrom. James tried blearily to pull back and examine what was happening to him. Then, just as suddenly as it had arrived, the pain began to fade. James made a mental grab at the retreating strands, pulling himself along as they returned to their source. Deep foreboding pounded through the angel as he realised what he was seeing.

_Wings of ash coated the walls and floor of the richly furnished room. Blood had spattered onto the golden cream carpet. The body of a balding, middle aged man lay spreadeagled against one of the walls. Blood trickled slowly down his forehead, down the stupefied expression on his face. Beyond the room, a man walked through the crumbling warehouse.  
There was sorrow in his heart and blood on his hands. _

James was hauled roughly back to his body. Bartleby was shaking him roughly by the shoulder, while trying to fend off the barkeeper's questions.  
"What the hell happened to you people?"  
James sat up, shaking off Bartleby's grip.  
"Pulmonary oedema." he improvised wildly.  
The barkeep looked sceptical.  
"What? At the same time?"  
James shot a glance at Bartleby, who was attempting to down the rest of his drink before the barkeeper kicked them out.  
"It's alright, we're leaving now. Come on."  
He heaved himself to his feet, ignoring the way the world spun around him, and made for the door. Bartleby followed unsteadily.  
The parking lot was almost twice as large as the bar itself, and held about eighty vehicles. Now, however, there were about three.

James made it to the first car before he started to crack. This was bad, this was really, really bad. Bartleby was pressing his hand to the bridge of his nose.  
"What the hell just happened?"  
James shook his head. Bartleby tried again.  
"Alright then, how bad is it?"  
His companion trembled, then shoved a mental image at Bartleby.  
"That bad."  
Both of them digested the shock. The moment a knife had entered Zachariah's skull, Bartleby and James had been doomed. Both of them were angels out of favour, soldiers who had disappointed their seniors. Most of the underlings were dependent on the mercy of their master for survival and protection. Not to mention purpose.  
"Shit." Bartleby broke the silence. "What the hell are we supposed to do now?"  
"Nothing. There's nothing we can do."  
James opened his eyes. A cold breeze soothed is heated skin, and stirred the dead leaves which coated the tarmac. Bartleby started to pace, swearing in a steady stream all the while.  
_We are utterly, totally screwed. _  
Bartleby ignored him, so he absently started to mull over possible courses of action.  
_We could kill ourselves, I suppose. But that would be fairly difficult... Find someone else to do it? Who? We could just show up on the Plane, and see who needs us... But who the hell wants discarded, unfavoured angels?  
_Bartleby stopped pacing at James' last thought, and hummed thoughtfully. Suddenly, his face lit with delight.  
"We are so not screwed! You're just not thinking outside the box."  
James looked at him dully.  
"What are you talking about?"  
"You're not seeing this for what it is." Insisted Bartleby, his tone excited.  
James shook his head, but the other angel continued.  
"This is an _opportunity_. We're dogs off the leash. When the door is closed, go for the window!"  
"There is no window! Who else can we go to?"  
Bartleby just looked at him, dark humour in his eyes. James realised the answer before his friend said a word.  
"Lucifer. Lucifer will take us."

* * *

**Ok, still just seeing where it goes, but please tell me if you think it's a viable concept!**


	3. Open Window

_The one thing that always gets you about demons..._

_They know that they're demons._

_**** _

"This is stupid."  
James and Bartleby had been lurking outside the seedy bar for nearly two hours. According to their more reputable sources, a demon named Crowley visited the place often, and might be willing to help them contact Lucifer.

It was a long shot, even by Bartleby's standards.

James glanced at his friend, realised he was being ignored and sighed sullenly. Bartleby was staring resolutely across the street, not moving a muscle, his dark hair completely untouched by the gathering easterly. The bright neon sign glared down at them, painting the surrounding street a bizarre shade of red.  
James shivered involuntarily. This whole thing was bad. It went against their nature as angels; hell, it went against their nature as fundamentally ethical beings. He half expected Zachariah to emerge from behind the one of the ratty trees on the sidewalk, proclaiming it all to be an unpleasant sort of practical joke.

Bartleby caught that last thought, and, perhaps hearing the touch of insanity, turned to his miserable companion.  
"Will you please calm down? We're not doing anything wrong; we are simply exploring our options of survival."  
James made a doubtful noise, but Bartleby ploughed on.  
"If this Crowley turns out to be worth the wait, he can tell us where to get help. Simple, and absolutely guiltless."  
As the angel spoke, a small man in a dark overcoat was leaving the bar. He hesitated briefly at the entrance, as if sensing the presence across the street, before continuing along the path.  
With a gesture to James, Bartleby swiftly crossed the red-washed road and followed.


End file.
